There's a wide-eyed little fellow who believes you're always right, And his ears are always open and he watches day and night; You are setting an example every day in all you do For the little boy who's waiting to grow up to be like you.

The Change-Worker

A feller don't start in to think of himself, an'

the part that he's playin' down here, When there's n.o.body lookin' to him fer support, an' he don't give a thought to next year.

His faults don't seem big an' his habits no worse than a whole lot of others he knows, An' he don't seem to care what his neighbors may say, as heedlessly forward he goes.

He don't stop to think if it's wrong or it's right; with his speech he is careless or glib, Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room to see what's asleep in the crib.

An' then as he looks at that bundle o' red, an' the wee little fingers an' toes, An' he knows it's his flesh an' his blood that is there, an' will be just like him when it grows, It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is more here than pleasure or pelf, An' the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort of a man he's himself.

Then he kisses the mother an' kisses the child, an'

goes out determined that he Will endeavor to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.

A feller don't think that it matters so much what he does till a baby arrives; He sows his wild oats an' he has his gay fling an'

headlong in pleasure he dives; An' a drink more or less doesn't matter much then, for life is a comedy gay, But the moment a crib is put in the home, an' a baby has come there to stay, He thinks of the things he has done in the past, an' it strikes him as hard as a blow, That the path he has trod in the past is a path that he don't want his baby to go.

I ain't much to preach, an' I can't just express in the way that your clever men can The thoughts that I think, but it seems to me now that when G.o.d wants to rescue a man From himself an' the follies that harmless appear, but which, under the surface, are grim, He summons the angel of infancy sweet, an' sends down a baby to him.

For in that way He opens his eyes to himself, and He gives him the vision to see That his duty's to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.

A Convalescin' Woman

A convalescin' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings; O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown.

There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' to-day can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs.

I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way, But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home to-day An' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength; An' I guess I lost my temper, for I scolded her at length, 'Til I seen her teardrops fallin' an' she said: "I couldn't stand To see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand, An' it ain't hurt me nuther--see, I'm gettin' strong again--"

An' I said: "Doggone it! can't ye leave sich work as that fer men?"

Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks, An' she wasted most to nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I'd lose her; 'twas the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: "Success!"

Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stay A-sittin' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play.

An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor.

O, you can't keep wimmin quiet, an' they ain't a bit like men; They're hungerin' every minute jes' to get to work again; An' you've got to watch 'em allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit to kill.

Th' house ain't cleaned to suit 'em an' they seem to fret an' fume 'Less they're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use to scold 'em an' it ain't no use to swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there.

The Doubtful To-Morrow

Whenever I walk through G.o.d's Acres of Dead I wonder how often the mute voices said: "I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow Or rise to a sacrifice splendid--to-morrow."

I wonder how many fine thoughts unexpressed Were lost to the world when they went to their rest; I wonder what beautiful deeds they'd have done If they had but witnessed to-morrow's bright sun.

Oh, if the dead grieve, it is not for their fate, For death comes to all of us early or late, But their sighs of regret and their burdens of sorrow Are born of the joys they'd have scattered to-morrow.

Do the friends they'd have cheered know the thoughts of the dead?

Do they treasure to-day the last words that were said?

What mem'ries would sweeten, what hearts cease to burn, If but for a day the dead friends could return!

We know not the hour that our summons shall come; We know not the time that our voice shall be dumb, Yet even as they, to our ultimate sorrow, We leave much that's fine for that doubtful to-morrow.

Tommy Atkins' Way

He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks of shot and sh.e.l.l, And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring tale to tell, So we asked him where he got it and what disarranged his face, And he answered, blushing scarlet: "In a nawsty little place."

There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn't tell us why.

"A bit lucky, gettin' this one," was the sum of his reply.

He had fought a horde of Prussians with his back against the wall, And he told us, when we questioned: "H'it was nothing arfter h'all."

Not a word of what he'd suffered, not a word of what he'd seen, Not a word about the fury of the h.e.l.l through which he'd been.

All he said was: "When you're cornered, h'and you've got no plyce to go, You've just got to stand up to it! You cawn't 'elp yourself, you know.

"H'it was just a bit unpleasant, when the sh.e.l.ls were droppin' thick,"

And he tapped his leather leggins with his little bamboo stick.

"What did H'I do? Nothing, really! Nothing more than just my share; Some one h'else would gladly do it, but H'I 'appened to be there."

When this st.u.r.dy British Tommy quits the battlefields of earth And St. Peter asks his spirit to recount his deeds of worth, I fancy I can hear him, with his curious English drawl, Saying: "Nothing, nothing really, that's worth mentioning at h'all."

The Right Family

With time our notions allus change, An' years make old idees seem strange-- Take Mary there--time was when she Thought one child made a family, An' when our eldest, Jim, was born She used to say, both night an' morn': "One little one to love an' keep, To guard awake, an' watch asleep; To bring up right an' lead him through Life's path is all we ought to do."

Two years from then our Jennie came, But Mary didn't talk the same; "Now that's just right," she said to me, "We've got the proper family-- A boy an' girl, G.o.d sure is good; It seems as though He understood That I've been hopin' every way To have a little girl some day; Sometimes I've prayed the whole night through-- One ain't enough; we needed two."

Then as the months went rollin' on, One day the stork brought little John, An' Mary smiled an' said to me; "The proper family is three; Two boys, a girl to romp an' play-- Jus' work enough to fill the day.

I never had enough to do, The months that we had only two; Three's jus' right, pa, we don't want more."

Still time went on an' we had four.

An' that was years ago, I vow, An' we have six fine children now; An' Mary's plumb forgot the day She used to sit an' sweetly say That one child was enough for her To love an' give the proper care; One, two or three or four or five-- Why, goodness gracious, sakes alive, If G.o.d should send her ten to-night, She'd vow her fam'ly was jus' right!